


Icky Thump

by IWriteSinsNotStraightLines



Category: American Assassin (2017)
Genre: 1k words of Mitch just vibing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just wanted to give him some downtime lol, Mitch Rapp Needs a Hug, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27063610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWriteSinsNotStraightLines/pseuds/IWriteSinsNotStraightLines
Summary: “Take a breather. I don’t want to have to haul you bloody corpse out of some hotel room because you don’t know when to fucking quit.”He could feel the sardonic smile on his face- a little fond, a little exasperated- as he rolled his eyes and replied dutifully, “Yes, sir.”
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Icky Thump

**Author's Note:**

> What's up, everybody? I hope this is finding you in good health.
> 
> I wrote this for the Mitchtober 2020 that's happening on Tumblr. It's literally just Mitch taking care of himself for a 1000 words lol.
> 
> The title is from "Icky Thump" by the White Stripes. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Mitch winced, the expression pulling at the open cut across his cheek, sending a few drops of blood sliding down his face. He rolled his shoulders, muscles aching, and wiped at them, smearing red across his skin. 

The bodies of several guards layed scattered around him, all of them dead. His knuckles- split open and bruised- ached, and he flexed his fingers a few times. It didn’t help. 

Fishing his burner out of his pocket, he sighed, rubbing idly at his jaw. He’d taken a few more hits than usual, and it _hurt_. 

Hurley picked up after the second ring, “Is it done?” 

“The boss wasn’t here. It was a trap. He’s probably halfway across the world by now.” His voices sounded flat and tired even to his own ears. 

Hurley cursed and barked something to someone, sending a crackle of static through the connection. Mitch made a face. 

“There isn’t anything we can do for now. I’m sending you the address for where you’re staying. Ditch the phone you have-- there’ll be another there for you.” 

“Yes, sir,” he said. “What about clean-up?” 

“We’re sending a crew now. I want you gone when they get there.” 

Mitch hummed an affirmation, already heading for the door.

“Oh, and Mitch?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Take a breather. I don’t want to have to haul your bloody corpse out of some hotel room because you don’t know when to fucking quit.” 

He could feel the sardonic smile on his face- a little fond, a little exasperated- as he rolled his eyes and replied dutifully, “Yes, sir.” 

Mitch pulled the hood of his sweatshirt on, ducking his head and taking the back way out of the building. He walked quickly to the car he’d been given for the mission, staying out of sight until he was in it. 

He locked the doors and peered around into the back seat before sliding the hood off and away from his face and sagging as he started the engine. 

People tended to question bloody, injured men. 

Mitch hated questions. 

He drove to the hotel in near silence, the drone of the radio fading into the background as a pounding migraine settled into his skull like the beat of a thrumming bass. 

He hid his face again for the walk into the hotel, avoiding everyone’s gazes. Thankfully, no one tried to mess with him, and he was able to make the trip in peace, locking the door behind him and leaning on it heavily, letting his eyes close for a moment to breathe. 

God, he _hated_ walking into set-ups. 

Mitch checked around the room first, making sure both doors- one for the hallway, and one for the balcony- were bolted shut before he actually let himself relax a little. 

He hissed as he pulled his top off, blood sticking the fabric to his skin and making his wounds sting as he pulled it away. 

He balled the shirt up and tossed it into the trash. He rifled through the duffel bag which had been left on the bed for him, easily finding the new burner and turning it on. He set it on the nightstand. 

He found two changes of clothes and a small first aid kit, grumbling to himself when he realized they left him without a weapon. 

Fucking suits. 

Mitch snatched up the kit and took it to the bathroom with him, grimacing at how beat-up he looked. 

His lip was split near the corner, leaving a trail of red down his chin. There was a bruise on his cheek that was _already_ turning purple, and he could easily see the beginnings of a black eye. Various scrapes, nicks, and cuts marred his chest, cracking him like a broken mirror, leaving it a riot of color as swelling and bruising appeared under blood and sweat. 

He showered first, ditching his clothes from the mission and throwing them away with what had been his shirt. He idly watched the rust-tinted water swirl down the drain, the heat and steam forcing tense muscles to give. 

He washed up quickly once the water began to run clear rather than pink, eager to be able to actually _sleep_ for the first time since he’d been assigned to this mission. 

He dried off with one of the fluffy, white hotel towels because fuck it, he deserves nice things right now. He ruffled his hair dry, combing it away from his face with his fingers. It’d started growing out again since he last cut it, leaving it wavy and wild. 

Mitch bandaged up what needed to be, taping gauze over a few slashes on his torso, and smoothing butterfly stitches over a cut on his eyebrow. He dressed when he was satisfied, thankful that they at least remembered to leave him something other than jeans and a sweater this time when he slid on sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

He collapsed on the bed, groaning in exhaustion and burying his face in one of the several pillows. They were fluffy, but stiff, and he scowled at them- annoyed- and patted them into a better shape. 

His phone buzzed. 

He cracked an eye open, half-disbelieving, and waited until it went off again, sitting up and cursing everything. 

A message from a number that wasn’t saved into the phone- probably Hurley- popped up. 

‘ _Make sure to eat something. Don’t just pass out._ _There’s food and water in the mini-fridge._ ’

On second thought, it was probably Irene. Hurley didn’t normally care what he did in his downtime, but _she_ tended to get snippy with him when he ‘wasn’t taking care of himself.’ 

Mitch huffed, setting the burner on back on the table. He rolled back over, pulling the blankets off. 

He padded over to the small ‘kitchen’ area in the room, yanking open the door to the fridge. There were a few bottles of water, and some boxed-up takeout from a restaurant he didn’t know. 

He heated up the food in the microwave, forcing himself to eat and drink slowly even though he didn’t want to. He drank another half-bottle for good measure, downing some of the over-the-counter painkillers he found with the clothes and the phone. 

This time, he remembered to shut off the dull, yellow light of the lamp before he tumbled into bed, yanking the blankets over himself, and letting his eyes close. 

Finding sleep wasn’t difficult, not this time.

**Author's Note:**

> What'd ya'll think? I hope you liked it.  
> Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Until next time,  
> \- Sins 
> 
> Find my Tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iwritesinsnotstraightlines


End file.
